


Below me;

by piningly



Category: Star Trek XI
Genre: M/M, because mckirk gives me way too many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piningly/pseuds/piningly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The picture his CMO makes against the smoke and metal mess is something that hits Jim like a punch to the gut, because Jesus Christ, this is what he’s been putting Bones through for <i>years</i> now, and it’s not until this second that he realizes how shitty it is to be on the other side of the guy who risks his ass to save someone else. Especially when it’s <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Below me;

It should have been easy. It should have been in and out and  _fuck,_ why can’t he ever get these things right? It seems like ever since he’s had the captains stripes stitched onto his shirt it’s just been thread pull after thread pull and he might as well be chucking in the gold tunic now. Maybe he would, if he wasn’t so in love with the feel of sleek metal underneath his fingers, if he wasn’t addicted to the rush that came with a successful mission and the warm press of Bones’ palm against his shoulder even as he grumbled about what an idiot Jim is. Maybe he’d throw it all in if he didn’t  _know_ beyond all doubt that this was where he was supposed to be. Although, there’s some sort of loose wire in the universe if it thinks that this, right now, is something that should be happening.

“Hey Jim,” Bones’ voice is gravel, but not in the slow and bourbon rich way it should be. There’s a raw edged pain to it, desperate under the false bravado (and Jim should know, he’s the one who passed the trait on) when he continues, “I’d really like this thing off of me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Rust painted fingers push ineffectually at the piece of shuttle that’s pinning him; it’s clearly punctured his leg and that fact sets something primal loose in Jim’s chest. ‘

“I’ll get something, Bones, I’ll-“Jim gestures behind him, heart hammering. His voice cuts off as he searches the area, pointedly ignoring the trail of fuel that’s curving around the soil underneath the other man. It might as well be a fuse 3 seconds from being light.

3 minutes, if he’s lucky.

Bones’ face scrunches into something that he probably hopes hides the jagged pain playing out through his eyes. Jim knows better, but he pretends not to see it even as the other man grunts, “You damn well better.”

He will, holy shit, he will. Bones’ hands are useless, scrabbling at pieces that stick out in all the wrong angles. The picture his CMO makes against the smoke and metal mess is something that hits Jim like a punch to the gut, because Jesus Christ, this is what he’s been putting Bones through for _years_  now, and it’s not until this second that he realizes how shitty it is to be on the other side of the guy who risks his ass to save someone else. Especially when it’s  _him._

It sucks, it  _sucks_  and where the hell is a crowbar when he needs it?

“I’ve got you, Bones, I’ve got it,” Jim’s hands tremble as he searches through the wreckage of their pod, sorting aside useless pieces of metal and gaining more than a couple cuts to the hand. They’re slick with oil and useless as they pass through his fingers, every piece nothing more than a broken part of something else. If he doesn’t find something soon they’re both gonna go up and he’ll lose him. He’ll lose Bones.

He  _can’t_ lose Bones. He  _won’t._ Jim doesn’t know when he realized it, all he knows is that the last couple of months have been a game of cat and mouse that he’d been planning on winning (even if the winning just meant being able to keep Bones’ friendship) and if he doesn’t find something quickly he’s gonna do something clichéd and stupid like tell Mccoy he loves him.

Which, he doesn’t, right? He’s not sure that he knows what the word means, except that when he thinks about Bones lying there, useless and trapped something inside of him breaks and snarls, because he can’t think of a world without Bones in it. Hell, if the guy hadn’t been the stupid idiot of a best friend that he was and is, the world wouldn’t have even been here. Or, at the very least, he wouldn’---

  “Fuck!” There’s nothing here. Jim spares a glance at the other man and his heart beats out of his throat; with no radio contact, and no chance of emergency warp for at least 30 minutes, they’re screwed, and with the furious way Bones is pointing to the lick of flame that’s started at the mass of scraps 50 meters away from him and gesturing for Jim to get out of here or he’ll---or he’ll slit his throat, he knows it too. He knows it and he’s doing the stupid ass thing that’s supposed to be Jim’s job and trying to save both of their lives.  _Idiot._

“No,” Jim bellows, standing up and jogging back over. This is a stupid idea, but it’s not like the Enterprise won’t survive without him  -they’ve got Spock, and Uhura, and Chekov – he’s a genius. He’s not leaving Bones, and he says as much.

“You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot you stupid –,” McCoy starts, something in his eyes that Jim can’t place as he pointlessly struggles with his confines. “Get out of here.”

Bones chokes on his words as he gestures wildly behind him, eyes focused on the flame that’s getting closer each second, “Get out of here you goddamn fool, there’s no reason for you to--.”

Jim cuts him off, placing a hand over his mouth as he stares at him. Something that he’s never really felt before, a curling, stabbing string that pulls through all of his veins shoots up through his system. He looks into Bones’ eyes and there’s the center of the universe that’s been rotating around him since he first offered that drink on the shuttle. Jim breathes, swallowing against the sort of fear he’s never felt in his life. “There’s reason. I lo--”

Jim cuts himself off, breathing heavily. What is  _wrong_ with him? Great fucking timing, you _idiot._  
  
Bones blinks, once, twice, and shakes Jim’s hand from his lips. “You’re not-.”

“I am,” Jim replies, incredulously, sweat sticking to the back of his neck and eyes shining, “I’m not leaving you behind.”

The way Mccoy’s looking at him makes him think  _what the hell_  and straighten, standing. The words ‘we had a good run,’ trip at the tip of his tongue before his hands curl around jagged metal and he pulls. No such thing as no-win scenarios. There’s no such-

Jim feels the blood trickling down his wrists, but not before there’s a sudden slam of energy that fills his chest; not before he hears Bones’ jagged gasp and slight cry – not before he falls backwards, shuttle sliding off his best friend, out of the side of his leg with ease that almost makes him feel superhuman.

He takes a moment calm down, choking on the bile that threatens to speed up his throat, and offers Bones a hand with a cheeky smile that stretches his face and makes him feel all wrong because it’s not what he wants the other man to see. There’s no follow up to the basic (and pathetic) I love you that he’d all but said a few seconds ago, because he  _can’t._  Never mind the incredulous look he’s getting.

So he winks, gives McCoy a stare that says ‘I told you so,’ and wiggles his fingers, “Let’s get out of here.”

Bones takes his hand.

…

They don’t talk about it, because Jim’s not sure they can. Instead, they spend the next 5 days ignoring each other.

Jim’s not sure it counts as ignoring, because technically he is on duty when Bones isn’t, and the same goes for McCoy.  The fact that he hasn’t slept a night in Bones’ bed, and that he hasn’t woken up in his own room to the curmudgeon complaints about how Jim’s office chair is ‘too damn squishy and has little to no back support and –goddammit Jim are you even listening to me?!’ is just because their schedules don’t match up. And if they haven’t shared drinks in Bones’ office the whole time? Well, it’s because they’re trying to be more responsible when it comes to alcohol. Or so he tells himself.

The real kicker is that even though he’s the one who screwed them all up friendship wise, and even though he’s the one arranging the schedules and being a fucking coward, Jim misses him.

…

“Am I correct,” Spock starts, raising an eyebrow in the way that Jim  _swears_ Bones is starting to pick up, “In surmising that Dr McCoy and yourself are having – to use a colloquialism you seem to be fond of – a lovers tiff?”

The way he says it makes Jim pause for a few seconds, because  _what?_

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until Spock continues.

“You are, of course, aware that there are rumours about your romantic exploits, mainly concerning McCoy or myself, as you have encouraged them on several different occasions. I find it hard to understand, therefore, that you would deny there being any basis for them,” His first officer stops his objections with a look, “Particularly between yourself and the Doctor, as I am well aware that you harbor an attraction, if not a heavy emotional attachment to him – one that is quite obviously reciprocated - not unlike the general definition of love.”

Half way through Spock’s last sentence, the words become a little bit of a blur.  _Reciprocated?_ No way. Jim bites his fist, before leaning back against the turbolift wall and giving Spock a sunny smile. Why exactly had he decided to have this conversation here, again?

“I don’t think so,” Jim replies, still smiling, “He doesn’t feel like that.”

“Quite,” Spock stays still, stoic as ever as he tips his head, “I will leave you to your own deductions, then.”

And what the hell does that mean? He’s not allowed to just say something like that and not defend it when it’s pretty clearly attacked. Spock’s supposed to be Mr Logic – he’s supposed to tell Jim to get his head out of his regulation clothed ass and move on with it. He’s not supposed to tell him shit like this. He’s not supposed to get his hopes up. He’s not--- Jim’s not supposed to be able to have anything that he can keep.

They spend the rest of the turbolift ride in silence.

…

It takes a day longer, before Jim breaks. His comm’s in his hands with a secure line faster than he can think, and a second later he’s listening to Bones shouting about cadets and hypos (the word always makes him shudder) to some nurse (probably Chapel). Or he is, at least, until with a gruff and if he’s not mistaken, a little bit hurt tone the words, “What the hell do you want?” come through.

Jim credits himself with the fact that he manages to stop his lips saying ‘You,’ because besides the fact that that’d be cornier than the movie about the ship hitting the iceberg, it’d also end up with a lot of shouting and things he’d rather not say spewed over the phone – as much as he needs that. Instead, he forces out, “Are you alone?”  
  
Jesus, it's like the set up to some bad phone-sex porno.

The thump of a glass hitting solid wood and the three distinct chimes that mean Bones’s locking his office answer the question for him. Jim gulps, wishing he had his own whisky with him before continuing. It’s his fault that this is happening now. He’s the one who arranged the shifts so that Bones’d finish after 4am and be too tired to pick any fights. It’s his fault that-

“I’m alone,” McCoy’s soft drawl almost undoes him, “Have you got anything to say for yourself?”

Well, that was unexpected. The whole argument about how he was wrong, and how he doesn’t know how to do the whole ‘relationship,’ thing, and how he didn’t mean to say it in the first place flies out of his head to be replaced with “I meant it.”

Why the hell doesn’t he have control over his mouth anymore? Jesus, if he wasn’t 29 years old and quicker than Spock on a good day, he’d accuse himself of senility. Jim’s fingers tighten around the communicator, skin turning white with the force as he waits for something, anything.

“I know,” comes the reply, after 10 long seconds (Jims counting – he can’t not), “and I -.”

It’s like a dam breaks, or a pin drops, or something stupid like that because suddenly the zipper’s gone from across his mouth and it’s letting all sorts of secrets out that he never wanted to say. Jim cuts Bones off easily, body trembling with  _something,_ one hand flexing in and out and he’s standing, ready to attack before he even realizes he’s yelling.

 _Why didn’t you say anything_ becomes a torrent of accusations,  _I don’t know what to do_ becomes defensive armour, well-worn and chipped from where Bones’d  gotten too close. He never stopped getting closer. Jim’s out of breath and panting, standing at the edge of his bed with eyes that are burning like he’s fucking 14 and standing on the front porch yelling his brother’s name when he’s been gone out of their lives for over a year. He’s choking on what to say when the static in his ear stops, and McCoy’s voice comes across.

“You needed to work this out for yourself.”

And maybe that’s the greatest gift he’s ever been given, but maybe this time he needs to hear it. He needs to hear Bones saying ‘me too,’ so he knows where he’s standing. He needs a lot of things, but he’s learned to live without.

“Yeah,” Jim shoulders drop; he loosens his hold on the comm and wipes his forehead, “I’ve worked it out.”

“I hope so,” There’s something in the other man’s voice, but he can’t hear it, or  _won’t_ hear it. Not this time. This is one bridge he refuses to burn. They’ll be okay. If he says the right thing right now, they’ll be okay. The wind’s out of his sails now, and defeated, the only thing left to say is;

“You don’t want this.”

“You are a goddamn-,” He ends the transmission.

“Fuck,” Jim cradles his head in his hands, collapsing onto a sea of dirty gold command shirts, for all the good it does him. Three stripes mean nothing in the end.

He drops the communicator, “There’s no way you want this.”

….

He’s still repeating it to himself when an hour later, Bones’ shows up at his door, haggard and scowling, dark circles underneath his eyes.

Jim breathes, holds it, gets ready to close the door, but the man who’s become his whole fucking universe stops him with two words.

“You’re wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the buckleup meme. Yes, this is a crosspost. Yes, I do plan to write another part to this.   
> Soon.


End file.
